


Firewall

by dracoqueen22



Category: Transformers: Shattered Glass
Genre: All Kinks are Nonconsensual, Aphrodisiacs, Bondage, Fisting, M/M, Piercing, Read at Your Own Risk, Reprogramming, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, Sounding, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Triggery Content, aft port, dark themes, sparkplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 16:58:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17429882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: Eons ago, Ratchet made claim on a leaker in the Dead End. So when opportunity knocked, he retrieved his prize, much to Drift’s horror.





	Firewall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shinibunny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinibunny/gifts).



> Please read with caution and heed the warnings. It's a dark one, folks.

He wasn’t dead.   
  
That was the first thought to cross Drift’s mind as he slowly surfaced from a condensed, dark fog. Sight. Sound. Sensation. All were distant to him, sensors slowly trickling in with feedback.   
  
He didn’t hurt. He was cradled in something warm and comfortable. His system fed him updates in a glacially slow pattern. Repaired? Yes. Safe? Debatable. Assumable. The circumstances of his demise suggested he shouldn’t be awake at all.   
  
Sensation began to trickle in. Sounds, that of vents, the low hum of machinery, the steady beep of a sparkrate machine, and much, much further out, the distant noise of something buzzing and… screaming.   
  
Alarm bells rang in the back of Drift’s mind. He forced his optics to online, reset them twice to clear the static, and looked up at a dull gray ceiling, scraped and slashed and dented. Naked lights gleamed down at him.   
  
He didn’t recognize this ceiling.   
  
He tried to rise, and realized he couldn’t. Not only did his limbs feel as though they were weighted down, but something brought his wrists and ankles up short. Something like manacles.   
  
Drift rolled his head to the side, confirming his suspicions. He was shackled to the berth, at wrist and ankle and… neck.   
  
A cold flush of fear ran down his spinal strut, but it was quickly whisked away into a simmering, background heat. It was odd, but the more he tried to ruminate on it, the more his thoughts floated away. He couldn’t seem to stay focused.   
  
His vision wavered for a moment.   
  
Drift unshuttered his optics, cycled a ventilation, and opened them again. He glanced around the room. There was enough equipment around him to confirm he was in a medical bay rather than a torture room or a prison cell. A line ran from a nearby machine into his wrist ports, one on either side. Liquid flowed into his frame, and he thought one might be energon, but he didn’t recognize the other.   
  
It didn’t make sense.   
  
He last remembered being in a shuttle, fleeing from an Autobot battle cruiser. He’d had half a dozen Autobots with him. They’d been shot down, spinning out of space with a lack of hull integrity, on fire, and crashing toward certain death. The uninhabited moon had rushed up to meet them, and Drift had enough time to spit out a prayer to Primus before they struck.   
  
He’d thought that was the end. It should have been his end.   
  
He was alone in the room. There were no windows, and only a single, solid door. He was surrounded by numerous machines, some of which were connected to him, others which were dark and silent.   
  
Had the rest of his crew survived?  
  
Drift cycled his optics, and the world spun. His tank rippled, threatening to purge. His spark flickered with fear. Why did he feel so disconnected and uncontrolled?   
  
Where was he…?  
  
The sparkrate monitor surged to life. What had been a steadying beep suddenly became a shrill scream. Drift startled, whipping his gaze toward the machine. It blinked obnoxiously back at him, still shrieking, louder and louder.   
  
Someone… someone had alarmed him?   
  
The door opened.   
  
Drift’s gaze darted toward it. Someone stepped inside. A mech. Drift saw the Autobot badge first, before he recognized anything else, and the heat in his lines briefly ebbed in the wake of a flush of ice.   
  
No.   
  
No, he knew this Autobot.   
  
The memory of this Autobot rose at the back of his processor, tiny flashes of fright and repressed images. The shrill buzz of a hacksaw. The cracking open of his chestplate without permission or anesthesia. The possessive gleam in bright blue optics. The promise of a better life if only he’d give in…  
  
Waking up later to shouting in the outer chamber. Tearing lines from his frame. Fleeing out a back door missing several plates of armor and only the belongings he could see and carry, dripping energon from torn lines. Finding out much, much too late that a name had been scored into his spark chamber in an acid he couldn’t afford to fix.   
  
He’d lived, and he’d wondered – even then – if that was the more terrible option.   
  
Panic spiked through his lines. Drift tugged against his restraints, spark strobing a flash of fear. It rose up, choking his intake, and the nausea gripped him, threatened to freeze him in place.   
  
No. Not this one. Not again.   
  
“Oh, good. You’re awake!” Ratchet declared, his optics bright with glee and something a bit too close to mania for Drift’s comfort. Even back then, his offers of repairs and safety, freedom and protection, had come with a frenzied edge.   
  
Gasket had warned him not to go to the free clinic. But he’d been so desperate. He’d been in pain, and he hadn’t the creds to go elsewhere.   
  
What else was an addict to do?  
  
The ice in his lines turned warm again, melting the chill, flushing them through with heat. The spike of anxiety shifted as quickly as it arrived, from panic to arousal. Unwanted thoughts bubbled up, applying a wave of confusion to everything else attacking his spinning processor.   
  
 _Want him. Frag him. Have me. Take me._    
  
His valve clenched, lubricant slicking his walls.   
  
Drift moaned, a sickly sound, as the need started to crowd the back of his mind. He tugged ineffectually at his bonds, wanting to escape, and wanting to throw himself at Ratchet all at the same time.   
  
What was happening to him?   
  
“I was starting to think I’d have to wait another full cycle before I’d get to see those pretty optics of yours,” Ratchet continued as he all but bounced to Drift’s berthside, leaning over to peer at his face. “Yes, so pretty.”   
  
Drift would have cringed if he could. He cycled through a number of questions, his glossa sweeping over his dry lips. “Why am I here?”   
  
A pale finger swept over the side of his face, a soft caress that had no business here. “Because it’s where you belong,” Ratchet murmured, and the tip of his fingers traced the curve of Drift’s mouth before dragging along his bottom lip. “With me.”   
  
Drift cringed internally while the rest of him seemed to curl toward Ratchet in need. “No,” he moaned, but it seemed to be ignored.   
  
“You’re my little Decepticon,” Ratchet crooned as his finger dragged down the underside of Drift’s chin and continued further, tracing his intake, his chestplate, avoiding his badge. “I put my claim on you.” He tapped Drift’s chassis, right over his spark chamber, the mark he’d been unable to scrape away, even after joining the Autobots.   
  
Ratchet didn’t pause too long. His finger moved on.   
  
Down, down, down. Over Drift’s chest, his belly, his abdomen. It paused over his groin, tracing the seam of his interface array, leaving a line of tingles in his wake.   
  
“Eons ago, to be fair,” Ratchet said with a tilt of his head, the slow curl of his smile growing and growing, bearing the brilliant white of his denta. “You’re lucky, too. Wheeljack almost beat me to you.”   
  
Drift didn’t know which was worse.   
  
He licked his lips, which felt as dry as the deserts of Raetaen. “My team?” he asked, his vocals emerging as a croak.   
  
He wanted to panic. He thought he should be panic. But something kept taking the panic and locking it away, leaving him with a vague sense of unease, clinging to the little bit of rationale he had left.   
  
Ratchet rolled his shoulders, and his fingers slipped away, grabbing a nearby datapad instead. A cable dangled from it, and Drift realized too slowly it was connected to a port in his side. His medical port, no less. What was it feeding him?   
  
“Dead,” Ratchet said, his tone shy of mournful. “A shame really. I had so many ideas...” He trailed off, something flickering in his optics as he sighed with regret. “I could have used the little one.”   
  
He glanced at the datapad before setting it back down. “That’s all right. I still have you.”   
  
A warm weight fell on Drift’s abdomen.   
  
Drift stilled as Ratchet’s palm slid down, over his array, and only then did he realize his panels were already open. He didn’t remember when it happened, as he was reasonably sure they’d been closed a moment ago.   
  
Now, he was acutely aware of the air tickling his naked equipment. His spike remained recessed, thankfully, but his valve was bare. A light brush of contact swept around the damp rim of it, teasing the sensitive derma.   
  
Drift quailed.   
  
“What are you doing?” he demanded, nausea twisting and churning in his belly, threatening the purge to rise once more.   
  
He tried to twist his hips away, and succeeded, but almost immediately, they surged back toward Ratchet’s fingers, as if he didn’t have complete control of his frame. His subconscious and his conscious battled over what he wanted. A pulse of need rippled through his lines, and his valve clenched, lubricant seeping out in a slow trickle.   
  
“I would have thought that were obvious,” Ratchet said as he slipped a finger into Drift’s valve, curling it just right to apply a firm pressure to the large, internal node directly inside his rim.   
  
Drift stifled a moan. His backstrut arched, pleasure licking up his spinal strut in bright bursts. He dragged in a panting breath, thoughts spinning, valve cycling down on Ratchet’s finger.   
  
No, two. He’d inserted another already and palpated inside Drift’s valve, gracing every node within reach. His thumb applied a light, circling pressure to Drift’s anterior node, smearing it with his own lubricant.   
  
“Why?” Drift gasped, head lolling back, more pleasure bursting through his lines, faster than he could fight.   
  
Nausea gripped his tanks. They roiled, while the pleasure twisted and coiled inside of him, threatening to swallow him whole. Purge rose up in his intake, then burned back down again before it spilled, as though that was beyond his control as well.   
  
“Because you’re mine,” Ratchet murmured. His free hand rested on Drift’s belly, sliding up and down, smoothly, soothingly, like Drift were a pet who needed reassurance. “You’re my special project. We’re going to have so much fun.”   
  
A third finger slipped into him, the noise of lubricant squelching around Ratchet’s fingers too loud in the medbay room. The rapid increasing beats of the spark monitor were shrill announcements in Drift’s audials. He panted, dragging in faster vent after faster vent, hips twisting and churning, riding Ratchet’s fingers.   
  
It felt… it felt good. He wanted more.   
  
He didn’t.   
  
But his frame demanded more. Drift whined and shuttered his optics, clamping his mouth shut. He gnawed on his glossa, bit it harder and harder, trying to focus on the pain more than anything else.   
  
The ecstasy chased it away.   
  
“Don’t fight it, pet,” Ratchet said, his voice coming from a distance and also, right in Drift’s ear, like a haunting lullaby he wanted to follow. “Give yourself to me.”   
  
Drift whimpered.   
  
His entire frame drew taut and snapped. He overloaded, thighs shaking, valve clamping down, rippling on Ratchet’s fingers as though trying to milk them for the transfluid they didn’t have. Lubricant flooded from his valve, dampening the berth beneath his aft. He could smell his overload in the air, a vile stink of ozone and hot lubricant.   
  
“That’s it,” Ratchet crooned, still fingering him, still rubbing over and over his anterior node, pushing the pleasure to the point of irritation. “Give it all to me.”   
  
“No...” Drift protested, his vents coming in sharper bursts, dizziness attacking the edges of his awareness.   
  
The spark monitor shrieked at them.   
  
Need clawed through his lines. He was sated. He’d overloaded. His valve clung to Ratchet’s fingers, gently massaging his nodes, extending his pleasure. But there was something in the pit of his tank, something that craved more.   
  
“Wonderful,” Ratchet said, his voice thick with praise. His fingers withdrew, dripping with Drift’s lubricant.   
  
Drift forced his optics open, his visual feed tainted by a haze. He watched Ratchet examine his fingers, head tilting left and right as though the sight of Drift’s lubricant fascinated him. He brought his hand closer, giving his fingers a tentative sniff, and a low growl rose in the medic’s engine.   
  
“This is an excellent start.” Ratchet grinned down at him, triumph glowing his optics. His free hand reached for one of the machines connected to Drift’s frame. “We’ll continue later.”   
  
Unconsciousness claimed Drift before he could get out a single word.   
  


~

  
  
He wasn’t in a prison cell.   
  
He onlined again, and his circumstances hadn’t changed. He was still in the medbay, still shackled to the berth, still attached to various bits of equipment and fluid lines.   
  
His panels remained open. Try as he might, he couldn’t convince them to close. His spike and valve were bare, his spike recessed, his valve twitching with every caress of cold air. The puddle beneath his aft was gone, the sticky lubricant wiped away as though someone had lovingly bathed him.   
  
The lights in the room were dimmed as if for recharge. The spark monitor beeped a constant rhythm. There was a tray near his left hip, and instruments on it occasionally gleamed, but he couldn’t make out what they were.   
  
He was alone.   
  
It didn’t last.   
  
The door opened, the lights brightened, and Drift squinted as his optics cycled down to avoid the glare. Ratchet came inside, a spring in his step, a grin on his face. Drift’s spark dropped down into his tank, the cold, gripping fear pushing at the back of his processor.   
  
“Did you have a nice stasis nap?” Ratchet asked as he all but bounced to Drift’s left side. He picked up the datapad plugged into Drift’s system, his finger sweeping over the screen.   
  
“How long was I out?” Drift demanded, and his vocals came out raspy as if from disuse. His mouth was dry and sticky.   
  
Arousal hummed at him on a subconscious level. He shifted on the berth, heat rising in his frame, valve beginning to slick as though the mere sight of Ratchet was enough to arouse him.   
  
“A few hours.” Ratchet tucked the datapad back by Drift’s hip and pulled the rolling tray closer, fingers dancing over the gathered instruments. “You are very beautiful, pet. But I think a little decoration is order. Perfection can always be improved.”   
  
He picked up something, but Drift had no idea what kind of device it was. Ratchet’s free hand moved between Drift’s thighs, and he cringed as he felt the cool brush of fingertips over his valve rim. Ratchet stroked him, humming in his intake, teasing his nub while arousal twisted and curled in Drift’s belly.   
  
He couldn’t move away this time. Sometime during his rest, restraining bands had been pulled across his frame. They pinned him down at the belly, across his hips, at his upper thighs, keeping his lower half immobile.   
  
Drift eyed the device in Ratchet’s hand and panic strobed through his spark. “What are you going to do to me?”   
  
“Not kill you, so don’t worry about that.” Ratchet’s fingertip rubbed over Drift’s anterior node in steadying circles, varying the speed and pressure, causing a wave of heat to flood Drift’s frame. “You are my pet now, and I take very, very good of my pets.” He licked his lips.   
  
Dread pooled in Drift’s belly. His tanks clenched as purge threatened to rise in his intake. His full tanks, he realized belatedly. One of the fluid lines in his arm must have been feeding him a steady drip of energon.   
  
He also noticed Ratchet didn’t answer the question.   
  
Lubricant trickled from his valve. Ratchet dipped his finger in the slick, swirled it around his rim, and then touched the tip of his recessed spike with it.   
  
“But I think I’m a fair mech, and I want my pets to be happy. So I’ll give you a choice.” Ratchet rubbed the pad of his finger over Drift’s spikehead, teasing the transfluid slit.   
  
Drift’s vents caught in his intake. Nausea warred with arousal.   
  
“Don’t,” Drift said, and it came out weak. Like he couldn’t get the refusal past a lump in his intake.   
  
“Spike or valve?” Ratchet asked as if he hadn’t heard Drift speak.  
  
Drift shook his head, his frame starting to tremble. “I don’t…”   
  
“Both it is!” Ratchet declared. He continued to rub at the head of Drift’s spike, coaxing it from its sheath, until it emerged, half-pressurized, into Ratchet’s palm.   
  
“I’ll start with your spike first,” Ratchet said as he squeezed and pinched and rubbed Drift’s spikehead, sending surges of pleasure through his sensory net.   
  
Drift jerked, brought up short by the restraints. His hands curled into fists. His vents came in sharper bursts as his groin pulsed fire, feeding need into his lines.   
  
Ratchet cradled Drift’s spike with one hand. The other held a device, and this he brought closer. It gleamed in the bright lights, and Drift still had no idea what it was.   
  
“What is that?” he demanded.   
  
Ratchet didn’t answer. He was focused, intent on Drift’s spike, gripping it firm in one hand and bringing the head of it into range of the device.   
  
Drift panicked. The sparkrate monitor beeped faster, a cadence throbbing in his audials. He trembled, and wasn’t sure if it was from fear, or the unwanted arousal threading his lines.   
  
He watched, wide-opticked, as Ratchet fitted the head of his spike into the instrument. As he eased some thin, slick piece of metal into Drift’s transfluid slit. There was a sharp, immediate pinch, and if Drift hadn’t been restrained, he’d have jerked.   
  
Dull pain radiated through his groin. His spike sent damage warnings straight to his processor on a high alert. The device made a dull thunking noise and then Ratchet removed it. Drift’s spike throbbed, half with pleasure, half with the hot-white ache of a recent injury.   
  
There, in the head of his spike, a ring of metal winked back at him. It was a polished, dark gray shade, a perfect complement to his armor’s underlayer.   
  
“Beautiful,” Ratchet breathed. He flicked his finger over the ring, making it flop back and forth in Drift’s spike. “I knew this would suit you.”   
  
Pain radiated outward. It stung, even more so with the flick of Ratchet’s finger. Drift’s vents stuttered. His mouth moved, but he couldn’t seem to make any words emerge. They were strangled in his intake, his rapid vents overriding them. Lights danced in his optics, and it had nothing to do with the surgical brightness overhead.   
  
“Now for the rest!” Ratchet declared, gleeful.  
  
Fingers brushed over Drift’s valve. He whined, tried to twist away, the medberth creaking beneath him without effect. His fans shrilled, spinning too fast. His spike throbbed and throbbed, the tiniest droplets of energon welling up around the ring.   
  
Ratchet refitted the piercing device with another ring and fondled Drift’s valve. He stroked the rim and the folds, he circled the nub over and over again, until Drift couldn’t decide if it was pleasure or pain. He pinched Drift’s nub, and Drift jerked, a gasp tearing from his intake.   
  
“You’re beautifully responsive, pet,” Ratchet said. “This will make you even more so.” He pinched Drift’s main node between two fingers, the pressure making Drift go taut with conflicting sensation.   
  
“Don’t,” Drift begged.   
  
Ratchet gave no sign he’d heard. He aimed the piercing instrument at Drift’s valve, fitted his nub around the pincers of it, wiggling a little to get the perfect angle. There was a moment of tense waiting, a sob caught in Drift’s intake, before a dull thunk echoed in the medroom.   
  
Pain lanced through Drift’s valve. He tasted energon as he bit his glossa, a hot slice of agony rippling through his groin, through his anterior node reawakening the throbbing fire in his spike. Optical fluid welled up around his optics, and he squeezed his shutters closed. Burning heat took up residence in his groin, specifically around his nub.   
  
Even more so when Ratchet plucked at the ring, giving it a wiggle. He hummed appreciatively. “Oh yes, quite lovely.”   
  
The tugs pulled on something deep within Drift’s array. His valve gave another squeeze of lubricant, his sparkrate increasing as arousal pushed a faster beat through his lines. The searing heat of the piercing morphed into the heat of pleasure, mingling with little spikes of pain. As if something deep within him was sucking in the pain, stirring it up, and spitting it back out as pleasure instead, muddying up the translation along the way.   
  
He honestly couldn’t tell the difference.   
  
“One more!” Ratchet declared.   
  
Drift moaned.   
  
There was a pressure at the caudal edge of his valve, where a smaller node was inset. Ratchet pinched it between thumb and forefinger, and Drift didn’t even have time to brace himself. The dull thunk preceded the flash of pain, and inexplicably, overload surged through him.   
  
He arched, twisting as little as he could in his bonds, a whining moan slipping from his intake. His processor spun. Lubricant spilled from his valve, dampening the berth beneath him again, soaking the new piercing, making his aft sticky.   
  
The piercing device returned to the tray with a clatter. Fingers petted over his swollen valve, which throbbed to the rapid beat of his spark, and felt hot and tender.   
  
Drift peeled his optics open. Ratchet loomed over him, hands moving over his frame, tugging on the ring around his spike, fondling the rings in his external valve nodes. Each piercing seemed to be connected to something deep in his groin, like a direct line to a pleasure nexus, because ecstasy swelled in him all over again.   
  
“Ssstop,” Drift slurred. It felt like the strength and energy were draining from him, slipping out through the pleasure building and building in his groin.   
  
Ratchet’s touches increased in earnest. He was focused on Drift’s array, fingers tugging and stroking and pulling, slicking themselves in Drift’s lubricant, painting streaks of it over his inner thighs and over his swollen spike and valve.   
  
Drift’s hips twitched in the tiniest of motions he was allowed, rocking into Ratchet’s touch, hunger in his belly for release. It was there. He wouldn’t have to reach for it. It would consume him whether he wanted it or not.   
  
It took him, spike and valve at once, nodes throbbing around their new metal decorations, spike pulsing across the ring adorning the slit. Transfluid spattered down, decorating his groin, the smell of ozone nauseatingly thick in the air.   
  
Drift gasped, vision streaking static around the edges. He tried to hold on to consciousness, but it slipped out of his grasp, and he slipped under once more.   
  
The embrace of dark was a welcome relief.   
  


~

  
  
Drift woke with a cry of pleasure on his lips, heat and fiery ecstasy ripping through his frame, arching away from the medberth beneath him, his thighs trembling.   
  
His optical shutters snapped open, the rest of his senses slower to follow. His entire frame rattled, and his head lolled about as he struggled to determine what was happening to him. His processor spun, the world around him streaks of heat and color and sound.   
  
Something was buzzing. Vibrating. A low drone. Slick, wet noises. Moist and quick and slow. Creaking, like cables tensing and a medberth rattling. A smell on his glossa, lubricant and ozone and transfluid.   
  
He was still on the medberth. He was still in the medbay. His hands were still shackled to the berth to either side of his head. His legs had been adjusted, feet pushed up, ankles bound to his thighs. Something forced his legs wide open, at the knees, baring his array.  
  
Sensation slicked over his array.   
  
Drift rolled his gaze downward, struggling to focus, spying Ratchet between his legs.   
  
“There you are, pretty,” Ratchet purred, his lips shiny, glossa sweeping over them to lick it away.   
  
Shiny with lubricant. Drift’s lubricant.   
  
He bent forward, licked Drift’s valve, suckled on his anterior nub, tugging on the piercing with his teeth. Another shot of pleasure stole Drift’s vents. He gasped, wriggling in his bonds, unable to twist away, the berth creaking beneath him.   
  
Something prodded at his aft port, firm and slick, nudging inside, stretching the narrower rim of it. Something that buzzed and vibrated, sending a broader drone of pleasure through Drift’s sensor net.   
  
“Wh-wh-wh--” He stammered, unable to get out the question as Ratchet sucked hard on his anterior node and overload washed through his frame.   
  
His fans whirred so fast they screamed. His vents roared. Condensation gathered on his frame. His system warned him of overheating.   
  
“It’s a reward,” Ratchet said, and licked him, lapping up lubricant, slurping it noisily.   
  
Something pressed deeper into Drift’s aft. The buzzing intensified.   
  
“You’re such a good pet,” Ratchet murmured. His head dipped, denta tugging on the ring around Drift’s lower exterior node.   
  
He gasped, backstrut arching, processor twirling. His vision streaked static, his thighs shook so hard his cables ached. His optics rolled into the back of his head as he threw his head back, intake bared, struggling to catch his vents.   
  
A palm smoothed over his spike. He was hard, aching, dribbling from the tip. The ring gleamed at him. Ratchet gripped him, stroked him, firm and squeezing and perfect, like he already knew how Drift liked to be touched.   
  
He gasped, overloading within moments, a thin stream spurting from his spike. Drift gulped in several desperate draughts of air, warm and humid, his head spinning and spinning.   
  
Ratchet squeezed and worked him, as if milking him for every last drop. His mouth dropped back to Drift’s valve, licking and slurping and sucking on him with abandon. His field pushed at Drift’s, hot and sticky and tangling around his as if laying claim.   
  
The buzzing intensified, the vibrations harsh and angry against his sensitive nodes. Drift tossed his head back, a garbled shriek tearing from his intake to match the sharp throb of his groin as another overload stole his body. Torn from him violently, like a physical blow.   
  
His head spun. He couldn’t ventilate. His groin ached, and he wanted to twist away, but he couldn’t. Ratchet’s palm on his spike continued, squeezing and pumping, lubricant making it slick, but still painful. Drift didn’t know how he was still pressurized and leaking, but he was.   
  
Ratchet pinned his anterior node between his lips and denta. He tugged on the ring, sucked hard, and it burned. It seared like fire. It was more pain than pleasure, but somehow, it didn’t leave him be. It kept building and building. Lost in translation, pain went through a filter and emerged as ecstasy.   
  
“S-s-stop,” Drift moaned, his vocalizer crackling. “Please.”   
  
If Ratchet heard his pleas, he didn’t acknowledge them. He kept going, plunging something in and out of Drift’s aft, something that buzzed and stretched. Lips and denta devoured his valve, suckling hard on every node. Fingers gripped and tugged on his spike, his full groin swollen and throbbing, one big ball of confused arousal and agony.   
  
Another overload stripped him raw. He wanted to scream, but all he managed was a crackle of static. His entire frame seized, frozen, trapped in pleasure.   
  
He sank back into the dark.   
  


~

  
  
Either his chronometer was broken or deactivated. Drift couldn’t be sure anymore. He was certain time passed, judging by the fact he oscillated between consciousness and recharge.   
  
He didn’t know how long it had been.   
  
Rescue wasn’t coming. The Decepticons must have assumed he was dead. The way his shuttle crashed, no one could have survived.   
  
He was in the spark of the Autobot fleet. Everyone knew Ratchet was never far from Optimus Prime. If Drift was here with Ratchet, then he was definitely on Ark-One, the spearhead of the Autobot fleet.   
  
There was no rescue to be had.   
  
There was no escape.   
  
There was only this. There was only whatever Ratchet wanted from him, or death. And knowing Ratchet, death wasn’t much of an escape.   
  
He’d seen the shambling half-lives on the battlefield. Things that were dead but not. Things that bled weird, tainted energon, and kept going until you cut them into small enough pieces. Terrifying abominations of mechs torn apart and welded back together, mechs that couldn’t possibly transform.   
  
Drift didn’t want to become one of those monsters.   
  
He didn’t know if it was a mercy Ratchet wanted something different from him. The pleasure and the pain, mingling and twisting together. Waking to Ratchet touching him, prodding him, applying pleasure and twisting it with agony.   
  
He emerged from recharge hating Ratchet, searching with his optics for a way out. He tested his restraints. He eyed his surroundings. Every time he woke in a different position, he looked for weaknesses, anything he could work to his advantage.   
  
By the time he fell back into the darkness, he was confused. Dizzy. Drowning in pleasure. Craving more of it. Craving enough he was willing to beg Ratchet for release. Anything to cross that threshold and keep going, again and again and again and--  
  
It got harder and harder to remember who he was.   
  
It got even harder to remember he was supposed to hate it.   
  
There was a fuzziness in his processor, and it got worse every time he onlined. Like a slow web was being strung between Then and Now, separating what he knew, from what he was becoming.   
  
He hated Ratchet.   
  
He wanted to be closer to Ratchet.   
  
He wanted to kill Ratchet.   
  
He wanted to draw Ratchet into his mouth and suck him dry.   
  
How long had he been here? Did it even matter? His tanks were never empty. His fluids were filled and drained and replenished on a schedule only the wealthy had ever enjoyed. His armor was always gleaming and polished. Whatever Ratchet harmed, he fixed. He was full of praise.   
  
Ratchet hurt, and he healed.   
  
Drift forgot there was supposed to be a difference between the two.   
  


~

  
  
Drift tried to go inward. To focus on something other than the fingers and the false spike pushing and prodding into his valve. He wanted to ignore the thick, nauseating scent of lubricant and arousal, the noise of fans spinning, and the steady drone of Ratchet's voice.  
  
It was probably meant to be reassuring. All it managed to do was ensure there was a continuous curdle of dread in Drift's tanks.  
  
Dread and the disorientating sensation of arousal that wouldn't leave him be. It choked his lines and clogged his sensory net. It made him rock down and push up into Ratchet's touch, his nodes throbbing and his valve spilling pulse after pulse of lubricant. His spike was pressurized and had been since Ratchet first began, however long ago it was.  
  
Drift wasn't sure. He tried not to watch his chronometer, tried not to watch time ticking away from him. Tried not to think about the impossibility of escape.  
  
Protests burbled on his glossa, and were swallowed just as quickly. They wouldn't be heeded. Why waste the energy?  
  
Four fingers plunged into him, stretching the limits of his rim, which ached and burned, but yielded to the stretch. Drift wanted to quail away from it, but there was a shout in the back of his processor which demanded more, more, more.  
  
"Whatever you want, pet," Ratchet said, with glee in his voice.  
  
It took that long for Drift to realize he must have moaned the last request aloud, and Ratchet had heard him. He'd taken the inadvertent plea for genuine desire.  
  
Four fingers withdrew. Something else replaced them. Something that was thicker, broader, coming to a rough point.  
  
Drift looked down, down the length of his angled frame, down at what he'd been attempting to avoid. Ratchet sat between his thighs, propped on a stool, Drift spread wide to accommodate him. His optics were aglow with lust, and he watched avidly as he eased his fingers into Drift’s valve.   
  
All of them. Four fingers and a thumb, drawn to an uneven conical point. Drift’s valve made an obscene noise as they slipped inside, his rim stretching, possibly tearing, burning like fire.   
  
Drift squirmed, but Ratchet’s free hand gripped his hip, kept him in place. He sucked in air through his denta, stars dancing behind his optical feed, as Ratchet’s hand moved deeper, catching at the widest point and stalling. His rim tugged and tugged against a catch on Ratchet’s plating.   
  
Lubricant made a moist, wet sound. Ratchet licked his lips, vents harsh and ragged, his field so hot and heavy with lust it overpowered Drift, knocking him for a loop. His own rose up to defend him, and was again barreled over by the onslaught. He swore he could taste the lust on his glossa.   
  
Ratchet pushed forward, applying a steady pressure, and then the widest part of his hand slipped inside. The rest went smoother. Bottom half of his palm. His wrist. A section of his lower arm. More of his arm. Midway to elbow.   
  
Ratchet paused.   
  
Drift panted. A thin whine peeled out of his throat. He felt impaled, stretched wide, valve throbbing and aching. Dizzy, his head lolled. His vents came in short gasps. Ratchet’s fingers moved inside of him, fingers palpating his inner nodes.   
  
Ratchet’s hand left his hip and flattened over his belly, fingers splayed wide, as though he could feel the bulge of his hand inside Drift’s valve. Within Drift, his fingers drew together in a tight fist, a thick bulge of plating.   
  
He started to move.   
  
Drift keened.   
  
Backstrut arching, armor clattering, thighs jerking in their restraints. Out. In. Out. Deeper. Grind, grind, grind against his ceiling node.   
  
Release ripped through his frame. Drift jerked and went taut, electric fire leaping out from under his plating, too sharp to be pleasureful. Searing, like the splash of a slag pit if you’re not too careful.   
  
Ratchet twisted his arm and ground, ground, ground his knuckles on Drift’s ceiling node. Again and again. Drift thrashed, writhing, another overload sweeping over him before he could cycle down from the first. His processor spun. He couldn’t catch a vent.   
  
It took him too long to realize the thin, whining sound came from his own intake.   
  
Lubricant dribbled out around Ratchet’s arm. Drift’s valve cycled tighter and tighter, grasping to Ratchet’s arm plating for node clusters that weren’t there. Need still twisted in his abdomen, roared through his lines. He’d overloaded twice and still wanted more. Wanted another.   
  
There was no going inward. There was no getting away from it. There was nothing but the strain of his frame, desperately seeking that next release.   
  
“Please,” Drift moaned, and not even he knew what it meant. His legs shook. His valve rippled, tried to suck Ratchet’s hand deeper, tried to feed pleasure from it.   
  
“Another?” Ratchet slowly slid his arm in and out, in and out. He leaned down, tip of his glossa wrapping around the ring in Drift’s anterior node and giving it a tug.   
  
Drift arched, caught on the edge, not quite tipping over.   
  
“Please,” he begged. “ _Please_.”   
  
Ratchet’s field flooded with approval, washing over Drift, and something within him relaxed at the feeling of it. Ratchet was proud of him. Ratchet was pleased.   
  
The overload when it came this time was suffused with warmth. It washed over him like a slow, rolling tide, dragging him beneath the waves.  
  
Ratchet’s approval followed him under.   
  


~

  
  
It was the first time he wasn’t shackled to the medberth.   
  
A thrill ran through Drift at the change. He slid to the floor and padded to the door. It didn’t open to him – locked, of course.   
  
Drift poked around the room.   
  
Previous days there had been trays of instruments, toys, equipment. This day, it was barren. No tables or trays. The cabinets had been emptied. It was desolate, all of the extra equipment removed.   
  
How long had he been in recharge?   
  
Where was Ratchet?   
  
Drift nibbled on his bottom lip and absently, his hand drifted down to his groin. His spike peeped from his sheath, and the gleam of the ring piercing the head of it caught his optic. He pinched it between thumb and forefinger, shivering as a little surge of pleasure coiled in his groin.   
  
He hadn’t had much opportunity to explore his new piercings.   
  
His fingers ventured lower, tentatively brushing over the rings through his nodes. They swelled at his touch, thickening with arousal, and Drift shivered again. He swallowed thickly, heat flushing through his lines.   
  
His valve slicked.   
  
Only then did he realize he didn’t have any panels. What should have been there to protect and conceal his array from prying optics, wasn’t. He couldn’t close his panels, couldn’t hide himself. He had no dignity, no privacy.   
  
Then again, he supposed he didn’t need it. Pets didn’t need privacy.   
  
A strange thought that. He was a free mech, but… not. He had a master. He had an owner. He was not his own.  
  
Drift frowned, fingers on his valve, head tilting. There was a jarring dissonance in his processor. Lines drawn between two certainties were frayed or missing.   
  
No, he didn’t belong to Ratchet, right? He was his own mech. He was a Decepticon. He was Drift. He was important to Megatron, to the war. He wasn’t owned by an Autobot. He was…   
  
He was…  
  
Drift licked his lips. He tugged on the ring around his caudal node, felt lubricant slick his fingertips and drip down, sliding toward his aft port.   
  
He needed to be filled, was what he was.   
  
Where was Ratchet?   
  
Drift looked up, toward the door, yearning. Why was he alone? Ratchet never left him alone so long before. Usually, he’d come back within moments of Drift waking. But here he was, unfettered, alone in the room, for longer. Or was it? His chronometer was broken, so he wasn’t sure anymore.   
  
The door opened.   
  
Drift’s attention snapped toward it. His thighs slicked with lubricant. A whimper tightened in his intake. He tugged on his anterior node ring.   
  
Ratchet stepped inside, and Drift licked his lips.   
  
“Morning, pet,” Ratchet said.   
  
Drift went to him, because there was a gnawing deep inside his belly that demanded he do so. He went to Ratchet, and he whined when Ratchet held his chin and bent to kiss him, soft and sweet.   
  
“Look at you, ready and eager,” Ratchet crooned. His free hand dipped between Drift’s thighs, coming up wet with lubricant. “I’m so happy to see that.” He slid a finger through the ring in Drift’s node and gave it a tug.   
  
Drift moaned. He swayed where he stood.   
  
He didn’t want this. He knew he didn’t want this. Shouldn’t want this.   
  
He couldn’t bring himself to move away.   
  
“You’re going to bend over the berth for me, aren’t you?” Ratchet asked as he tugged, tugged, tugged on the ring, and arousal twisted and coiled in Drift’s groin.   
  
His vents surged, drawing in thick draughts of air. “No,” Drift moaned, but it was weak, so weak.   
  
Ratchet chuckled. “Yes, you are.” He nipped Drift’s lip and tugged hard on the ring, sending a lance of pain through Drift’s groin.   
  
His knees buckled. Ratchet’s grip on his chin kept him mostly upright.   
  
“You’re going to bend over the berth.”   
  
Drift swallowed thickly. “Yes,” he whispered.   
  
“Good pet.” Ratchet patted him on the cheek and let him go.   
  
Drift turned and wobbled toward the medberth. Fire flashed in his groin with every step, the ring jostling through his node. But he bent over the berth, aft up, legs spread, letting the berth take most of his weight. His spike bumped against the side of the berth, and Drift couldn’t resist humping forward, rubbing the head of it over the soft fabric. It caught the piercing in delicious little tugs.   
  
Drift moaned, humped again, loving the delightful curl of pleasure winding through his spike.   
  
Ratchet’s hand landed on his lower back, rubbing up and down. The other prodded between Drift’s thighs, petting his valve before shifting. Lubricant-wet fingers circled Drift’s aft panel.   
  
“Open,” he said.   
  
Drift’s spark quailed with anxiety. It never occurred to him to disobey.   
  
Slick fingers circled his aft port before two of them plunged inside, briefly stretching and slicking him. Drift grunted, clutching at the covers, elbows tucked beneath him.   
  
“I should pierce you here as well,” Ratchet commented, almost offhand, as he rubbed the small panel separating Drift’s aft port from his valve. “You don’t need a cover here anyway.”   
  
No. Stop. Don’t. Words he thought but didn’t voice. He ground his denta, swallowed a moan, and tensed when Ratchet’s fingers vanished and a blunt pressure aimed at his aft port. Too little lubricant, hardly any stretching. This was going to hurt.   
  
But pain. Pain was expected. Pain was part of it. Pain meant pleasure, and pleasure was a good thing. Pleasure was release and overloads and sweet oblivion.   
  
Drift canted his hips upward, rising on the tips of his feet, presenting himself.   
  
Ratchet purred approval. “Good pet,” he said, and thrust, quick and deep, filling Drift immediately.   
  
Fire ripped through his aft port. Drift’s backstrut arched, and he thought he might scream, but it caught in his intake. His vents turned ragged. His knees buckled and without the berth, he might have collapsed. As it was, he went limp across it, dragging back with Ratchet’s retreat, and shoving forward with his harsh, claiming thrusts.   
  
Ratchet hissed with pleasure. “Perfect,” he said through his denta. “Just as I knew you’d be.” He thrust again, and again, harder and deeper, but no faster. Each stroke buried him to the hilt, and each withdraw barely counted as such before he plunged inside again.   
  
Drift moaned, an aching sound, because it hurt, it burned, but arousal twisted and coiled inside of him regardless. His valve rippled on nothing. His spike spat lubricant against the side of the berth. His port walls fluttered around the invasion, urging Ratchet deeper.   
  
“Please,” he begged, hands clawing the berth cover, backstrut arched, trying to crawl away from Ratchet while his frame simultaneously pushed backward, into each deep thrust.   
  
“Please what?” Ratchet asked.   
  
Drift was torn.   
  
Please stop. Please don’t stop. Harder. Stop. More. None.   
  
He fisted the cover until it tore, rutted forward, grinding his spike against the edge of the berth, the piercing catching and rubbing against it. His aft throbbed, aching and sore and hot, like fire, from no preparation and too little lubricant.   
  
He tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come out. He choked on static and swallowed down the cries.   
  
He didn’t want this. He hated this. He needed this. He hated that he needed this.   
  
Ratchet smoothed his hands down, gripped Drift’s hips, yanked him hard into each thrust, pushed him back into the berth, banging him between two hard surfaces. He’d have scratches and dents. Ratchet would buff them out later. Clean him and wax him.   
  
What Ratchet broke, Ratchet fixed. He was a good master.   
  
No.   
  
Drift didn’t want that. He wanted.   
  
Escape. He wanted to escape. There was no escape. He couldn’t escape. He shouldn’t escape. He was where he was supposed to be.   
  
Oh, Primus. It felt good. It felt so good.   
  
Drift moaned. He didn’t know what kind of flavor it was. He bit into the berth to muffle his cries as Ratchet plunged into him again. And again. And again. Grinding deep, grinding hard, making him rut against the berth, soaking it with his pre-spill.   
  
His valve clenched on nothing. Drift craved to be filled. He wanted more, but he bit down on his glossa so as not to ask for it. He didn’t want to give Ratchet the satisfaction. He still had his pride. He was still himself.   
  
He was still a Decepticon.   
  
He was still Drift.   
  
He told himself this, even as he overloaded on Ratchet’s spike and spilled his transfluid against the side of the berth. Even as the pleasure stripped away his thoughts, leaving him with a desperate need for more.   
  
Ratchet couldn’t have him.   
  
He was still Drift.   
  


~

  
  
Warmth surrounded him, embraced him.   
  
Drift hummed as he onlined, sensation gradually trickling in, the scent of cleanser and oil tickling his nasal sensors. His optical shutters fluttered open.   
  
He was in an oil bath. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in something so luxurious. Someone was kindly rubbing a soft cloth over his frame, cleaning his nooks and crannies, while their free hand fondled his groin, teasing the head of his half-pressurized spike and occasionally dipping down to rub over his valve.   
  
Drift sighed a moan.   
  
Lips pressed a kiss to his nearest finial. “There you are,” Ratchet crooned, and Drift’s insides tightened with want. “I have a surprise for you, pet.”   
  
“A surprise?” Drift echoed. Distantly, there might have been something he was supposed to remember. Something about this situation that wasn’t quite right.   
  
It was there and gone again, like a wisp of smoke, when Ratchet cupped his valve and tugged on his caudal node piercing. Drift whimpered and rolled his hips against Ratchet’s palm, arousal threading a hungry need through his sensory net.   
  
“Oh, yes,” Ratchet breathed into his audial and went back to rubbing on Drift’s spike, coaxing it from his sheath, one finger looped into the piercing and giving it a little tug. “I want to feel this today. I want to feel you inside me, pet. I want to make you mine.”   
  
Drift leaned back against Ratchet, tucking his head into the crook of Ratchet’s neck. “I want that, too.” He licked his lips, rocking up into the tunnel of Ratchet’s fist, already imagining the tight heat of the medic around him.   
  
“Do you?” Ratchet’s other hand stopped cleaning him. It pressed flat to his chestplate, one digit tracing the seam concealing his spark chamber.   
  
Drift shivered, remembering what Ratchet had last done for him. The pleasure and the pain. The shocking agony washing away in the wake of pure bliss. It was reclamation, hot vents on a mark ages old, and pleasure usurping all else.   
  
A whine rose in his intake.   
  
“Yes, yes I do!” He clutched at Ratchet’s arms, drawing in heavy pants through vents that weren’t covered by the rich oil. “Oh, please, Ratchet. Please can I serve you?”   
  
A tiny voice whispered at the back of his processor. It was a language he didn’t know. It drifted away, smoke on the battlefield, gone in the wake of a hot pulse of need through his frame.   
  
Ratchet chuckled, the sound rolling through Drift’s audial. “I will grant you that boon, my pretty, pretty pet.”   
  
His hands vanished.   
  
Drift whimpered at the loss, scrabbling for him. But Ratchet dumped Drift from his lap, and Drift nearly plunged face first into the oil. He came up sputtering, struggling to get his feet beneath him. He wiped oil from his optics as Ratchet emerged from the bath with much more grace, oil dripping down his frame.   
  
Want surged through Drift’s lines. His discomfort didn’t matter. Only what Ratchet wanted from him.   
  
Ratchet crooked a finger.   
  
Drift scrambled to follow.   
  
 _Dignity_!   
  
The word, screamed at him, made Drift reduce his haste. He cocked his head. The voice almost sounded familiar. The shout was a noise of desperation. It reminded him of something… something from a long time ago.   
  
“Drift!”   
  
Ratchet’s shout sounded much louder, much more important.   
  
Drift hastened to obey.   
  
He dripped oil as he followed Ratchet’s equally damp footsteps into an adjoining room. It was more like a lounge, with a few long and padded benches spread in the small space.   
  
Ratchet stood near one of them, and the moment Drift got into reach, Ratchet grabbed him by the jaw and pulled him into a kiss. Drift moaned, melting against Ratchet’s mouth, clutching to Ratchet’s side. His fully pressurized spike brushed over Ratchet’s upper thighs, need clawing from the pit of his belly to the twirl of his spark.   
  
“You are such a good pet,” Ratchet said against his lips. He bit down on Drift’s bottom lip, hard enough to draw energon.   
  
It stung, but less so when Ratchet licked away the bite, leaving his lip plump and swollen.   
  
“Lay down,” Ratchet said and gave Drift a little push toward the nearest lounge.   
  
He obeyed quickly. That voice at the back of his head shouted at him. It was like fists beating against a thick wall of transteel, a shadow moving on the other side of it. Drift side-eyed the strange presence, but then Ratchet was straddling him, Drift’s spike shadowed in the vee of his thighs.   
  
His valve was open.   
  
Drift’s optics widened. His hands rested on Ratchet’s hips as he hungrily eyed the dripping valve on display for him. Biolights blinked and fluttered. Swollen valve lips begged to be touched. Licked. Tasted. Worshiped.   
  
Drift’s mouth filled with lubricant. He wanted to lick Ratchet. He wanted Ratchet to sit on his face, smother him until he gasped for a ventilation. He wanted Ratchet to ride his mouth. He wanted Ratchet to take whatever he desired, so long as it came from Drift.   
  
He unconsciously bucked, the head of his spike gracing those swollen, dripping folds. Oh, he wanted inside. He wanted to taste Ratchet’s valve with his spike.   
  
Ratchet’s fingers wrapped around his wrists. Drew his hands up, held them together, pinned them over his head. He sank down, hips rolling over Drift’s spike, painting it in lubricant.   
  
His free hand drew a cable. The end of it was dull from repeated use.   
  
“Open your port,” Ratchet demanded.   
  
Drift obeyed. His dorsal panel snapped open, revealing his main cabling port, the most direct access he had to his systems short of a processor plug.   
  
“Good pet.” Ratchet’s approval washed over him.   
  
Drift moaned and writhed beneath him. He waited, expectant, until Ratchet plugged into him, and almost immediately, the medic’s presence butted up against his firewalls, demanding permission.   
  
“Let me in, pet,” Ratchet said.   
  
 _Don’t!_    
  
The scream made Drift jerk. His optics snapped wide. For a moment, he tugged on Ratchet’s hold, but the fingers tightened in warning. His wrist armor creaked at the sudden pressure. The pain sucked air into his vents.   
  
 ** _Don’t!_**  
  
The voice shrieked at him, panicked and desperate and terrified. For a moment, something broke through the dark, shadowy place Drift didn’t want to poke. There was an inkling of clarity, the tiniest glowing ember. If he touched it, maybe that feeling of wrongness would be explained.   
  
Maybe--  
  
Ratchet sank down on top of him, taking his spike in one fell swoop. Pleasure rocketed through him and Drift’s backstrut arched, processor going static-white with ecstasy.   
  
The voice vanished, erased.   
  
Drift relented, and Ratchet stormed inside of him.   
  
“Yes,” Ratchet hissed as he rose and fell on Drift’s spike, riding him with abandon, taking him in harsh drops, grinding down on Drift as if he were a toy for Ratchet’s amusement alone.   
  
Because he was.   
  
He took Drift’s spike, and he plundered Drift’s processor, filling him out until Drift felt claimed within and without. The voice was gone. The presence was gone. The tiny bit of light winked and snuffed out, surrendering to the black.   
  
Drift gasped like he’d emerged from drowning. He planted his feet on the lounge and started thrusting up into Ratchet, seeking his release with single-minded intensity, seeking to pleasure Ratchet as he best knew how.   
  
“Good pet,” Ratchet praised. “Good.” He left the cable connecting them, swaying with their movements. His palm flattened on Drift’s chestplate, over his spark seam. “One last thing, pet. Open for me.”   
  
It never occurred to him to disobey.   
  
What Ratchet wanted, Drift would give.   
  
His chestplate split down the seam, a y-shape, and slide aside, revealing his spark casing. He spiraled it open without Ratchet having to ask, until the medic’s hand could dip into his chest, press into the first layer of his spark corona.   
  
A moan caught in Drift’s intake. He tossed his head back, hip juttering up into Ratchet, ecstasy rattling through him.   
  
“Your spark is in my hand,” Ratchet said, his optics aglow as he pushed his fingers deeper, into the secondary layer, and the pleasure started to edge into pain. “But you’ll let me do whatever I want, won’t you, pet?”   
  
“Yes,” Drift moaned. He shuddered, feeling as though he was going to rattle through his armor.   
  
Ratchet chuckled, the sound of it rolling through Drift’s audials. He sank down on Drift and rested there, rocking his hips, stirring Drift’s spike within him. His fingers sank further, into the tertiary layer, nearly touching the very core of Drift.   
  
“If I wanted this, I could have it, couldn’t I, pet?” Ratchet asked, and his valve clamped tight, rippling around Drift’s spike, milking him.   
  
Agony clutched his chassis, his spark, stole his vents. But his hips kept pumping upward, kept grinding against Ratchet’s valve ceiling, ecstasy coiling and tightening in his groin. Release was a nanite’s breadth away.   
  
“Yours,” Drift gasped out.   
  
“Yes,” Ratchet purred, and his fingers curled around the edges of the core of him, casting shadows from the light of Drift’s spark over his face. “Yes, you are.”   
  
Ratchet squeezed.   
  
Drift convulsed.   
  
Charge surged and spat across his body in an electric wave. He didn’t so much overload as he shattered, spike spurting, body seizing. He only distantly felt Ratchet overloading on top of him, valve spooling down tight. The rest was ecstasy, boiling up and through him, whiting out all else.   
  
It hurt. It didn’t. It felt good. It didn’t.   
  
There wasn’t a difference anymore.   
  
Ratchet flexed his fingers, and Drift gasped, thrashing beneath Ratchet, darkness creeping around the edges.   
  
The voice was silent. It had nothing left to say.   
  
“Good pet,” Ratchet purred, kissing him, swallowing down the sound of Drift’s sobs. He hadn’t realized he was weeping until then.   
  
He thought he’d lost something. It might have been important once. It wasn’t anymore. There wasn’t anything that could possibly be important.   
  
There was only Ratchet.   
  
And then there was nothing at all.   
  


~

  
  
Drift onlined slowly, luxuriously. A soft sound left his lips as he stretched and rolled over in his berth, pulling himself off the plush surface. He fought back a yawn, rolling his neck to stretch out the kinks. He felt good, achy, but in the pleasant way.   
  
He slipped down from the berth, feet hitting the floor as he glanced around. The room had changed, he realized belatedly. He wasn’t in his room in the medbay anymore. These better resembled personal quarters. They were far more plush, stocked, and had personal items scattered about.   
  
Ratchet’s private quarters, he surmised.   
  
There were two doors. Drift cocked his head as he examined them from afar. Ratchet had left no clue as to his whereabouts. It was odd to wake without Ratchet, and his spark screamed at him to find the medic as soon as possible. He needed to be wherever Ratchet was.   
  
There was a distant sound of shrieking.   
  
Drift’s lips curved and he turned toward the door where the sound seemed to be coming from. It opened without him having to press a single button – perhaps it was keyed to his spark. The screaming became louder, and he stepped through it into the medbay. A back entrance then.   
  
Drift followed the screaming down a short hall, passing several medrooms. They were of no interest to him, so he didn’t look inside. He only cared about Ratchet.   
  
He’d left a puddle behind him, he’d realized. Lubricant slowly gathered in his valve, dripping down. Without a panel, there was nothing to catch it. His spike peeped out of the sheath, not fully extended, but enough. He reached down, absently rubbing his palm over the rounded tip, giving the ring a little tug.   
  
He swallowed a low groan. Primus, that felt good.   
  
He made himself stop. It was up to Ratchet if he’d get more.   
  
“I don’t want it!”   
  
“If you didn’t want a new arm, you shouldn’t have destroyed the old one.”   
  
Drift’s spark perked. A small smile curved his lips as he caught Ratchet’s voice, and he rounded the corner to find another hallway, this one with two operating rooms, one to each side of the corridor, before it continued on. One was dark, the door closed. The other was brightly lit, the door open.   
  
Ratchet and some other mech were inside. The room looked very similar. Almost like the room Drift had spent so much of his time in recently, except flipflopped. He glanced back across the hall. Was that his old room?  
  
No matter.   
  
Drift slipped into the operating theater as sparks flew up from the mech on the table. He screamed, another long and thin wail, before he abruptly went still and quiet, optics dim.   
  
Not dead, judging by the field Drift could still detect.   
  
Pah. What a wimp.   
  
Ratchet, however.   
  
Drift’s spark sped up in rhythm. His spike pressurized further as more lubricant slicked the inside of his thighs.   
  
Ratchet was amazing. His fingers moved with such dexterity and skill. Drift flushed as he remembered how they moved inside of him, touching all of his nodes, bringing him to overload so easily. He could bring pain, too, with the same amount of ease. But pain was also good. Pain made him feel.   
  
Pain was ecstasy.   
  
Drift’s engine purred.   
  
He pressed to Ratchet’s back, wrapping his arms around the broad medic, his palms splaying over Ratchet’s belly. One slid slowly down, to Ratchet’s groin, circling over his closed panel. His half-pressurized spike grazed over Ratchet’s warm, sending another surge of want up Drift’s spinal strut.   
  
“Hello, my pet,” Ratchet purred, delight and appreciation in his tone. “Recharge well?”   
  
“Lonely,” Drift replied. He nuzzled Ratchet’s backstrut before sliding around, tucking himself under Ratchet’s arm. “Missed you.” He rocked against Ratchet, letting a needy noise rise in his intake.   
  
Ratchet chuckled, but it wasn’t an angry sound. He patted Drift on the aft. “Don’t worry. I’ll pay you attention soon enough.”   
  
“Now?” Drift asked, his fingers flirting over Ratchet’s panel, feeling the heat beneath. His mouth filled with lubricant. “I could lick you?” He dropped his vocals into a deeper register. “You could hurt me.”   
  
Ratchet flicked off the welder with his free hand and gave Drift more of his attention. The hand on Drift’s aft reached down, pressing between his thighs, drawing fingers over his valve, slicking them with lubricant.   
  
Drift moaned and rocked down on them, but they were gone too quickly. Ratchet took his hand back and painted Drift’s lips with his own lubricant.   
  
“I will,” Ratchet promised as Drift licked his lips, then Ratchet’s fingers clean, savoring the taste of his own slick. “But later, pet. I’ve got to finish this first.”   
  
Drift sucked on Ratchet’s fingers, cleaning every nook and cranny of his own lubricant. He let him slide free with a pop, and Ratchet stroked his mouth again before taking his hand back.   
  
“But my, you are a tempting pet. I did a very good job with you.” Ratchet activated the welder again, using both hands now to guide it to his patient’s open shoulder joint.   
  
Drift peered around Ratchet’s frame at the mech on the surgery table, curiosity tilting his head. “Who’s that?”  
  
“No one important,” Ratchet said brightly.   
  
No, Drift supposed he wouldn’t be. The mech had a Decepticon badge on his chest. In a past life, Drift might have recognized him. Runa-something maybe. It didn’t matter. He was Ratchet’s now. Not to keep, because that’s what Drift was for, but to experiment on for sure.   
  
Drift rubbed a palm over his own chestplate. He had an Autobot badge, he realized. He didn’t think he had it yesterday. Ratchet must have given it to him last night. He’d finally earned it.   
  
The thought filled Drift with pride. He leaned against Ratchet, content to watch as the medic methodically worked on his new experiment. Absently, Drift traced the new badge on his chest.   
  
He was an Autobot now. But more than that, he belonged to Ratchet.   
  
Drift smiled.   
  


***

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback, as always, is welcome, appreciated, and encouraged.


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